This Makes So Much Sense For Crack
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: John/Sherlock, with lots of unconventional family drama and humour. Basically a crackfic AU where everyone has their own dreams and HM-the-Queen-can't-stop-laughing-at-a-wedding-along-with-underworld-don-Charles-Magnussen sort AU. Most of them make fun of each other, and there's no real villain in the story. For the full proper summary, click on the story and read the author notes!
1. Eve of The Meeting Of Two Worlds

Since the summary is too big to fit, I wrote it out here.

**Once upon a time, in a crack universe...**

**Sherlock Holmes was an upper middle class consulting detective and Mycroft Holmes was a married MI6 official. Mrs. Hudson was their godmother, if that existed even after the children came of age. She drilled an idea into Mycroft's head to make his brother leave the danger life and lead a sedentary one like himself by settling down and marrying some stupid law-abiding, decent cow in a purely decent family.**

**John Watson was a sweet, unassuming and kindhearted doctor, who belonged to one of the richest crime families with his elder step-brother, Jim and double step-brother Sebastian. They made it their responsibility to get their little brother married to a decent boy, but they were unsuccessful because no decent family wanted to ally with a criminal family like theirs.**

**Like in every Johnlock fic, Sherlock and John fell in love and they wanted to spend the rest of their lives with each other. Sherlock is ready to elope but John is insistent that Sherlock's family accept their liaison. But will Mycroft and the rest of the Holmes family accept the alliance?**

WARNING: FATAL AMOUNTS OF CRACK. EVERYONE IS DECONSTRUCTED HERE.

**There were some of my readers telling me that I was punching out too many sad stories and chapters... so here's my attempt on 10 chapters of total crack and humour and madness.**

**By the way, just to warn you, Mycroft and Jim are the characters who will be deconstructed the most here. Sherlock and John... well, I'll try to leave them alone. Everyone else... may God be with you.**

* * *

"Cobra is go, talk later," Mycroft Holmes muttered into his phone, leaning against the window of the Stranger room in Diogenes club. He looked into a file and sat down on his usual seat, yawning widely. The meeting was scheduled to be at four, before Sherlock came back home tired and exhausted with his latest case and running around London. He was still a child, Mycroft sighed, and only marriage could tame him. Happy marriage to a fine, decent lady who had not a speck or shadow of crime in her entire family.

And why marry Sherlock off? Yes, Mycroft loved his little brother more than himself, but now he had a wife too, and it was really, _really_ inconvenient to have Sherlock around in the house. And the times Sherlock had been with a flatmate had been an utter disaster. The first one had almost introduced him to drugs, the second one had introduced him to crime-solving, and the third one had introduced him to hatred towards marriage. Rest others had mostly been criminals. In the light of such disastrous flatmates, Mycroft (actually Mrs. Hudson) decided to get Sherlock a life partner, clean and decent and stable.

But Sherlock was disinterested in every girl he had set him up with. Once or twice, Mycroft even had to send one or two his way, or send him investigating into the way of three or four girls, such that Sherlock might take interest in. He himself used to be a staunch cynic of the institution of matrimony, but now, with a happy domestic life with Andrea and a baby on the way—she had done the test day before yesterday by the way—he knew how satisfying a happy marriage could be. After all, his own parents were testimony to that.

But now that he was happy and well-settled, Sherlock wasn't. And that fuelled by Mrs. Hudson, their godmother telling him to fix Sherlock's marriage with some girl without his notice, and then drug him so that he woke up at the altar after having exchanged vows (somehow), Mycroft had forced Sherlock to join an online dating site, which the elder Holmes brother was going to check up.

Five minutes later, Mycroft's face rested in his palms. Sherlock had still not joined the dating website, and Mycroft was understandably tired.

Fifteen minutes later, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard stood in front of him, chin up, hands to the side and left leg twitching a bit. Mycroft enjoyed having that effect on people, and Mycroft hated not having a similar effect on Sherlock.

Greg was however, a little wary of the elder Holmes brother. As long as he followed his instructions to the letter... well, no fucking way. He was a sodding Detective Inspector, and not a dog who could be summoned by the big brother of the man who contributed to more than half of his closed cases and to the whole of his annoyance.

Mycroft called him over to his side, and showed him the website.

"Sherlock's name must appear here, when I search for him tomorrow," he growled, and Greg flinched visibly. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, and Greg shrugged, wondering why Mycroft couldn't do it himself.

As if to almost answer his question, Mycroft spoke, "You have much more influence over him than I do. You refuse him cases, unless he joins the site."

Greg forced a wolf-like bark of laugh down his throat. He had so many brilliant ideas for this. Donovan and Anderson would love to wager in for this.

"Alright, you could've told me on phone," Greg shrugged, but Mycroft shook his head, "Detective Inspector, I want you to help me."

Greg frowned. Mycroft? Asking for help? Well, he should as well wish for a sports car too. He did not voice that aloud, instead going with, "For?"

Mycroft stood up, "Come along with me."

Greg groaned. He now knew exactly what Mycroft was calling him for.

Half—an—hour later, Mycroft, Greg and Andrea found themselves in front of a posh mansion with iron gates opening into the villa. This was the three hundred and seventh time Greg found himself being dragged out of his working hours to look for a girl suitable for Sherlock. Although it was fun and was the daily topic of gossip at Scotland yard about how the freak couldn't get a girl for himself and how Mycroft had to go about for the final, the last resort: arranged marriage since Sherlock wasn't interested in dating. But the thing was, it was difficult to find a contender for arranged marriage since most people went for dating first and Sherlock had decided that if divorce was going to be the ultimate result, he had no wish to go through the intermediate steps. At that time, Mycroft had thought that Sherlock had been joking, now he had come to believe that maybe he wasn't.

Anyway, Mycroft Holmes was a staunch Briton, in love with the Queen and the country, a law abiding man in Britain and a rule breaker beyond Her international borders. If there was a girl for Sherlock to marry, she would have to come from a decent family, and Mycroft Holmes had his own formula for determining that.

And Greg Lestrade was happy to work overtime if it only meant that he would not get dragged to what seemed like a very family thing for the Holmeses. In short... going out with Sherlock's big brother and his wife to sort a girl for him... not really his division.

The whole thing could've been ridiculously simple, said Sherlock once. If only it was a girl who had no family. Mycroft had conveniently shut him up by telling him that such girls never opted for arranged marriages. Not that it mattered to Sherlock in any way. He knew that it would be only on the day of betrothal and separation that Sherlock would see her at all.

So, why was Greg dragged to these things? He had realised it after Mycroft had made him meet the first two families. He was supposed to be impersonating Sherlock for the time being, and also because he was an inspector. By some chance, all the families that the Holmeses had gone to were all well-established criminal families who concealed their black-marketing behind the white names of their industries, and Mycroft, ever the workaholic, used Greg and his wife as an witness for everything that happened, and proposing Sherlock's marriage to them was the easiest way to get through. But since Sherlock refused to come for such events, it had to be Greg.

So, by proposing Sherlock's marriage to the daughter of every bad guy in the city, Mycroft successfully usurped their crime networks. Easy peasy.

Meanwhile, in the mansion, they were led to the sitting room where the family in question, the Roman Catholic mother, her husband and their beautiful, docile daughter were sitting, waiting for them. Mycroft shook his hands with him, pretending to appear impressed at the grandeur of the house and the decorum of the servants. He came right down to business, mingling with them as easily as sugar does with water. After fifteen minutes of tiresome chatting and upon noticing that Greg was eyeing the girl meant for Sherlock, Mycroft cleared his throat in a businesslike fashion.

"Uhm... Mr. Sanchez, your daughter is indeed a very beautiful woman, and it'll be my pleasure to..." At this point, Mycroft's neck turned sideways on its own accord in what would seem to an unassuming girl a very rude and perverted gesture and that too in front of her parents and his own wife, which incidentally proved to be the direction in which the bedrooms were also located, "ask for your daughter's hand in marriage..."

Actually this was Mycroft's problem, and also a problem of the office he held in front of the foreign dignitaries, who had no idea about this particular problem of his. As a holder of a "minor position" in the British government, Mycroft Holmes was entitled to all health facilities and insurance, and yet he never put an end to the misunderstanding created by the slight bob of his head in often the wrong direction: out of the room, the lavatory, the bedroom, the closet, all sorts of potential makeout places, so much that for the first year of his job, he was considered to be a complete pervert, and there had been several lawsuits filed against him by women in his workplace.

But now, everyone knew that it was just a problem, not an insinuation or an invitation.

(If you're wondering why the BBC Mycroft doesn't do that... well, he actually does, but since that would be very unsettling for a "serious" character like his, Mr. Gatiss and Mr. Moffat have insisted upon cutting those scenes away)

But the girl in front of him clearly didn't mind, and she didn't say a single word, did not even express unease. Mycroft instantly knew what sort of family they were. He smiled across at the father, who had the top button of his shirt completely done up to the neck, and he was clearly uncomfortable in it.

"But, I really can't lie to such decent, domestic people like yourselves..." and the bob again. The girl across him smiled coyly, "I hold a small, modest office under the British government, but in reality, I supply pot and cocaine to the Eastern European countries, you know... and don't ask about my brother here," he indicated to Greg, who grinned lopsidedly, "Smoking, drinking, gambling are his virtues, so as to speak."

The family across his gasped in horror. Mycroft wondered for a small second whether the information had been false. But the family straightened up, and the father unbuttoned the top button of his shirt with a relieved expression. Mycroft knew that he had them under his thumb now.

"To tell you the truth, I really don't think your daughter deserves such a vile youth as my brother... what happened, dear sir?" Mycroft asked, looking a little surprised. Andrea sat back, smiling to herself at the tactics her husband was playing upon them.

The man laughed heartily, "Oh dear me, Mr. Holmes! Dear me! This drama was seriously smothering me, like choking my breath in my throat, you know? You should've told us, otherwise we wouldn't have put up with this Catholic nonsense!"

Greg reached into his pocket and turned the Dictaphone on as the man blabbed on proudly about how similar their families were and how well they suited each other.

"My Big Daddy is in prison for that Arthur Merlin murder case, Mr. Holmes, oh you should've told us!"

Mycroft guffawed, "Is that so? How fortunate, isn't it, darling?"

"Simply marvellous!" Andrea quipped.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I look forward to this union between our families!"

"So do I," Mycroft rose from his chair and shook his hands with him, and with the bob as well. Another two hours, and Mr. Sanchez's conquests were all recorded into the Dictaphone. Mycroft, Andrea and Greg took their leave and exited the mansion safely, having visited the three hundredth and eighth. Operation Cobra was go, over and out.

Another week, and Mr. Sanchez's property was seized, all the black money restored to the British Treasury and the entire Sanchez family in prison for all eternity.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

A head full of dark curls turned in Greg's direction, "What? Come to—"

"Your brother busted the arse of the three hundredth crime lord today," Greg yawned as he accompanied Sherlock to the duct tape where Donovan and Anderson were standing, listening to the freak argue with the DI, "Says that you will be thrown off cases if you don't go and join that sodding dating website!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh come on! I'm better off as a bachelor. I've heard that women don't like mould and thumbs in the fridge—"

"Look, it's not my problem. You know how your brother is, right? Seriously Sherlock, just make that bloody account, and then maybe your idiot brother will stop—"

"It's not my brother's fault," Sherlock leaned against the police car and spoke in a low, forlorn voice, "My mother's dying wish was to get me married to a decent girl before thirty."

Greg shifted his weight to his left foot uncomfortably, not wanting to go into such a sensitive issue, "Maybe you should honour it."

"What for?" He mumbled, "I—"

"You bloody well listen to me, Sherlock! Your brother regularly drags me out to impersonate you. It's stupid for me, alright? Just—just make an account. You don't have to go and meet these people in person, alright? Just... keep your brother at peace."

At this, Sherlock smirked up at him, "I _never_ keep my brother at peace, Lestrade."

* * *

"Okey, dokey," Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were gathered around the desktop computer in Greg's cabin as Sherlock created his account on the online dating website. It was only after Sherlock had found out that a string of men were being murdered by a lady serial killer that he had agreed to sign up for it. If anything, Greg vowed to send that serial killer chocolates every week for good riddance, that was of course, only after Greg caught her.

"Okay, now to upload a photo. Freak, smile!"

Sherlock gave his most fearsome glare as Donovan clicked a photo of him, and connected the camera to the desktop triumphantly. Sherlock looked away as he saw his latest text. A new case!

He strode out of there promptly, with Greg following him and a shout of, "Donovan!" She strode to walk out of Lestrade's cabin when Anderson pulled her by her wrist. They both grinned knowingly. Sherlock hadn't closed the browser window, and he certainly wasn't going to log into his account again.

"Want to take it all out?" Donovan smirked, and clicked on "Interested In", changing it to**:** Men.

* * *

A black limo pulled up in front of the gates of a large mansion, with a swimming pool on the other side and palm trees adorning the garden. From the doors of the mansion to the gate of the entrance, tough looking security guards stood in a line as the door opened in anticipation for James Moriarty, the city's most fearsome don, and a jumpy little character in a two-piece suit. His body guards saluted him as he approached the car. Jim rolled his eyes at them and took a good look of his handsome face in the tinted glass of the bulletproof limo, checking himself out shamelessly. Jim had always dreamt of being an actor when he first came to London. Soon, before he knew it, he was rotting in a care of a stepmother and with the only lovable character in the house being John Watson, his step-mother's son. Not long after, Jim's father married another woman, whose son Sebastian became bosom friends with him. Jim might be the god of the underworld, but his passion for acting still hadn't died even after all these years.

Jim wanted to be an actor, but he ended up becoming a gangster. But whenever he saw his reflection, the true actor inside him rose like an animal rising from hibernation. He now had only one dream, that his dearly beloved stepbrother John must marry a decent boy and live happily ever after like those handsome princes in children's tales. But why in God's good name would a decent boy marry a Don's brother, if only step? So that's why, he had his own formula to talk with the "good" fella in his own style.

Like the good brothers that they were, Jim and Sebastian took it upon their shoulders to find a boy for their sweet little Johnny when John tried to reassure them that he could find a boyfriend on his own. For the past, John had had bastards for boyfriends. One of them left him at the altar, the other left him to make out with John's receptionist in his own private clinic. But most of the time, John broke up with them. Somehow, the love and the habit to play with risk and danger had rubbed off onto him from his brothers. He got tired, he hated the quietude and the routine that fell upon his life as a result, and most of his boyfriends were with him only because of his money. So, Jim and Sebastian took it upon themselves to find John a husband and let their little brother leave in peace with his clinic and his daily work.

Today, Jim had a meeting with the owner of a steel mill in Germany, whose son had taken an attraction to John when he had been invited to the inauguration of Jim's hotel. With the alliance, Jim's business would prosper and John would've found himself a nice, respectable, _decent_, and very handsome husband. Jim could make a person say "wow" over and over again like a tape-recorder with the show of grandeur and his yachts. That was where he had been meeting that boy, and more importantly, his parents.

"Everything is God given," Jim would begin humbly while crossing his legs in a comfortable show of power, with his set dialogue for everyone, "Health, wealth, respect in the city, in actually the whole country..."

Jim threw a death glare at one of his companions, who coughed at the last word very pointedly.

He turned to his in-laws-to-be with a heavenly smile on his face, "SO much that if I were to marry my dearest brother to _any_ man, there is no denying that it would be a certain yes."

The in-laws-to-be smiled back at Jim in agreement, as he spoke about how great and how vast his businesses were, and how he had named all of them after John.

"A decent boy is very hard to come by, a decent family much less..."

"But," the boy's father interrupted. In usual cases, Jim would have loaded all the barrels of his revolver into that man's brain for having interrupted him, in this case...

"But, we really haven't the faintest idea about the businesses you were talking about. For example, John Airlines... John Textiles and Company?"

As if right on cue, Jim heard a jubilant scream coming from somewhere outside, out in the waters at a distance from his yacht. His smile faded as he realised that it was his crackpot of a lawyer, Crayhill.

"Sir!" Crayhill shouted, almost enough to shatter all the glass panes, "I have such good news that you'll want to jump off the face of the Earth and go to the moon."

"Great, simply great," Jim groaned to himself. His two companions, one with crutches and the other, a bald headed man he used to use as his sniper, groaned in unison as Crayhill came rushing into where Jim had been sitting with the "decent" family.

"Sir, you won't believe the double good news I've brought for you, sir! One phone call, and the mention of your name did all the magic, sir!"

Jim slumped against the back of the sofa, knowing that he would have to go back with nothing but spilled milk, "Is that so?"

"Oh, that Abbey murder case on you, it's all resolved now, sir! I told the brother, sir, that if he would ever press charges against you, you'll destroy his whole family, sir!"

Jim could seriously hear a sax playing in his ears, making fun of him for all his efforts being dashed over mud. He stole a look at the scandalised family, who gasped, horrified at the "good news".

"And," Crayhill didn't stop there, "Richter took his police complaint back, wants to settle it with you, sir! I have the twenty million in my briefcase here, sir, and the rest thirty, he'll surrender over to you on Thursday, sir!"

By this time, if it were a cartoon, Crayhill the lawyer would have clearly seen smoke coming out of Jim's ears like from a pressure cooker. Nevertheless, he passed the teapot to the horrified family, who looked like they had made their decision.

"Tea?" He tried to smile innocently and failed miserably.

* * *

Jim stared helplessly as the decent family made a run for it in their speedboat. He let out a defeated exhale as Crayhill stared at him incredulously.

"Who were they, sir?" asked Crayhill's apprentice. Jim finally snapped, and dragging him by his collar, threw him overboard.

"GO and fucking ask them!" He bellowed, and wanted to crumble in a heap of skin and bones. It was so bad, so stupid! Every time Jim managed to find a decent and fairly well-off boy for John, he either ended up as a sham after Jim's money, or they came to know about Jim's real businesses.

Crayhill gulped as Jim fretted around the deck frantically. One of Jim's companions supplied helpfully, "They came with a marriage proposal for John—"

"From Germany!" Jim bellowed frustrated with everything, as Crayhill winced, "First get a boy, then a gay boy, and then a decent gay boy, and then a decent gay boy from a fucking decent and well-off family! Fuck decent!" He shouted at Crayhill, "Had to tell them a thousand lies! I was making a fucking fool of myself with John Airlines and John Textiles and John Hopkins Hospital!"

"S-s-sorry, sorry sir!" Crayhill stammered, "I-I thought-in-in excitement—"

"What the hell do you mean by 'excitement'?" He yelled, "Where the hell am I sitting, who the bloody hell am I talking to, what am I talking about, can't you process it-control, Jim," he drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes, fisting his hands... "Oi, Legless," he called the companion with the crutches, "tell him what the fuck I can do when I get angry!"

Almost immediately, as if a prose learnt by heart, Legless began in a bland, expressionless voice, "I have a prosthetic leg. I was a big-shot hockey champion. One day, Mr. Moriarty got angry with me about something or other and he broke my two legs into four pieces with my own hockey stick," Crayhill cringed in fear at that but Legless continued his verse, "but being a good man at heart, he immediately took me to a hospital, got an operation done with a prosthetic leg. He gave me these crutches and-"

"Yeah, yeah, shut up!" Jim snapped, as Crayhill turned back to him, literally trembling with fear at Jim's nonchalant pose seething with fury, "Now tell me, what should I do to you?"

"S-s-sir," he stammered, "I-I thought that if-if I g-gave you two-two-two good—doog, sorry-good n-news... you'll p-pat my b-back," with this, he gestured to his back and tried to make a visual of those pats. Jim turned to his seven feet tall body guard, and motioned to him to give to Crayhill _exactly_ what he needed. By the looks of things, a quick congratulatory pat was out of the option.

"Control, Jim," he took in deep breaths, "Control."

* * *

"Philip! PHILIP!" Donovan called Anderson over to her desk as they were about to leave for the day and Anderson had to give to Greg the test results for some sample that he had passed on to the forensic expert, "Look! Come over! See this!"

Anderson strode over to Donovan's desk and peered into the monitor. She had opened the dating website that Sherlock had signed up for a week ago. In fact she was in Sherlock's account, having changed the password for it. The impossible had happened. Someone had actually messaged Sherlock back, even after the devilish glare as a profile picture that Donovan had set up for him.

"Jesus!" Philip looked at her, "We've got to tell Lestrade! The freak actually—"

On the screen, there was the photo of a blond young man with a charming smile.

"Victor Trevor." They both rolled the name together on their tongue. The name was too normal, too strangely normal for Sherlock.

"You gonna tell him?" Donovan asked him, but Anderson shook his head vehemently.

"Neither am I... but Lestrade's gonna find out eventually... he's awfully protective of the freak—"

"You know, he's got a name," came a strict voice from behind them. Lestrade was looking down at his Detective Sergeant and the forensic analyst. Greg crossed his arms, "What's all the fuss about?"

Donovan didn't speak, simply pointed to the screen, at the notification: one unread message.

* * *

**Review?**


	2. Getting John A Boy (In Sebastian Style)

**I changed "John Watson" in the online dating site to "Victor Trevor". I got a different idea after I finished with posting it. Sorry for the late change.**

**And if anyone was confused by the side characters, let me introduce them to you.**

**Crayhill: Jim's lawyer (he's canon, if you remember TRF Old Bailey trial, he was Jim's attorney)**  
**Legless (the hockey stick incident one) and Baldy: Jim's companions, mainly for humour**  
**Skinny and Fatty: Seb's companions, again mainly for humour.**

**My stories aren't betaed, so I'm sorry for any SPaG errors**

* * *

"Stop the cars!" Screamed a fat man, firing bullets at the incoming traffic. Suddenly, before Sherlock even knew, all cars, even an ambulance, were skidding to a halt, creating a pileup of vehicles near the highway. His own cab came to a sudden stop and he and Molly, who had been going to St. Bart's, lurched forward. There were gangsters swarming everywhere, firing bullets from their handguns at the tyres of any car that dared to move. One of them even shot the wailing ambulance siren into silence.

"Hands up! Nobody move!"

"What the hell is this?!" Sherlock demanded from the cabbie, who only cringed in fear and rolled up the windows he had lowered in order to ask people in the other cars about what had happened. Beside him, Molly shifted away from the windows and towards Sherlock, scared out of her wits. He had just reached for his phone to text Greg when he heard a tapping at the windows, and a handgun pointed at him. Knowing better than to attempt a text as the roughneck banged it against the window, Sherlock got out of the car and the bullies yanked the phone from his grip. The cabbie had already gotten out of there, cowering in terror and Molly trembled helplessly against him.

"Get out of your cars, you scallywags or it's you we'll fire the next set of bullets at!" The bully yelled at the others as they scrambled for dear life. Molly and Sherlock raised their palms, surrendering, sinking to their knees for some reason only God knew about.

"Freeze!"

Sherlock wondered what was happening as he froze in a 'on-your-marks-get-set-go' pose, his poor Belstaff fluttering in the wind as the bully pointed his gun at it. Sherlock tried not to growl at that. Molly froze with a salute. One of the guys who were attempting to climb a car froze in that very pose.

"Nobody move!"

Trying to control his pounding heart rate, Sherlock muttered while keeping his head down, "W—what's happening?"

"Can't you see?!" Said the man, yelling in Sherlock's ears and brandishing the handgun at him. Sherlock wanted to point out that the safety was clicked off, "Our boss is making a painting!"

The "artist" was obscured by a canvas mounted on a tripod stand in the comfortable shade of a age-tonic ad banner. A black limo was parked behind it and two tough-looking bodyguards dressed in black and armed with guns were standing on his side, one of them holding a palate for him in which he dipped his brush, and the other one holding a beaker of water. He looked like he must be working with oil paints, and yet he was using water as a medium.

And he called himself an artist. Sherlock thought he hadn't seen a greater fool in his entire life. He frowned at massive strain on credulity as he raised his head, eyeing the supposed boss making a painting of a hijacked highway. "What the—?"

"Shut up!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. No one asked Sherlock Holmes to shut up, not even some criminal boss. He straightened up and pulled his coat collar upwards, and with a tug at the scarf looped around his neck, he took it off and tossed it away dramatically, letting it flutter and land onto the unsuspecting roughneck's head.

"Hello! This is no way to stop cars in the middle of a street and staging an accident just to make a _painting_! Who is this crazy boss of—oh, bugger!"

Sherlock literally leapt off the ground and onto the bonnet of a nearby car as gunshots rang out behind him—or to be precise, a scantful centimetres from his feet, "Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, sorry! Sorry!" He put his hands up as he knelt on the bonnet of the car with the engine radiator still releasing heat. At Sherlock's frantic exclamation, the boss peeked from the top of his canvas board at the perpetrator.

Sebastian "Romeo" Moran was the city's second most fearsome don, step-brother to James Moriarty, and double step-bother to John Watson. Clad in a rad black suit with the first two buttons of his hip-looking shirt undone and a belt studded with diamonds, he reached out to take his goggles off. But instead of taking them off the way real and _normal _people do, the goggles parted from the centre. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the extraordinary man as he snorted at the sight of Sherlock kneeling over the bonnet of the car with his hands up in the air.

Sebastian might be the city's second most fearsome don and James Moriarty's right (and left) hand man, but he was a romantic at heart (hence the nickname "Romeo"). He spent most of his time bullying around the city with his two companions, Fatty and Skinny, who at this moment, had their handguns pointed at Sherlock's temples, and the rest of his time painting. A true romantic at heart.

With a cool nonchalant air, Seb laughed to himself and continued on his masterpiece, "Lucky as hell, you are. I don't touch guns the day I have the brush in my hand. Otherwise, you'd have been blown up by now."

"No, erm... If I may be so bold as to interject my professional opinion," Sherlock stuttered a lot like Molly did. The corners of Sebastian's lips twitched in amusement, "Painting is a product of imagination... not really by causing an accident—"

"Useless, stupid painters might do that," Sebastian exclaimed with a yawn, and grinned at the horrible masterpiece, "I make live paintings, dearie. Out of real life. I capture the _reality_, the agony of real people."

Last week, Sebastian's romanticism had hit an all new level. Right in broad daylight, his henchmen had stopped the traffic on the London Bridge and told all the people to get out of their cars. They asked everyone one-by-one whether they knew how to swim. Whoever answered in the positive was thrown into the river from the bridge because Sebastian wanted to make the painting of swimming men. Last month, his men barged into the control room of the Millennium Bridge to stop it from letting a steamer pass, just because Sebastian wanted to draw a steamer.

"Oi, stop growling!" The roughneck standing behind Sherlock smacked him on his head, "If the painting don't go well—"

"Doesn't," Sherlock exclaimed under his breath, thoroughly scandalised at the deconstruction of English language by the common man.

"What?!" The roughneck demanded. Molly, a metre away let out a squeak, but Sherlock rolled his eyes despite his kneecaps burning because of the exhaust heart from the car engine radiator.

"It's not 'don't', it's 'doesn't'."

Sebastian craned his neck to steal another glance at Sherlock. The young man did look like he was well-off and decent enough to protest against the intentional accident. So this was how real decent people looked like. Seb certainly had now conjured an image in his mind about that, except that Sherlock was in no way as decent as he supposed him to be in his crisp and proper suit and well-tailored pair of trousers clinging possessively to his thighs.

"If the painting _doesn't_ go well, he will make sure that he hunts your wife and kids down, and hurt them real bad."

Sherlock barked out a laugh, "I'm not married, stupid! I don't even have a boyfriend! See," he jabbed his ring finger in the direction of the man, "No ring, and no white p—"

"Shut up!" Fatty shouted.

This time, Sebastian did a double take at Sherlock. Tall, not to mention good-looking, nice hairstyle, leather shoes, regard for proper language and perfectly decent _gay_ fella with proper sense of fashion and quite well-off. He'd be perfect for little Johnny. He left his brush on the palate and strutted across to a helpless Sherlock, who was muttering to himself angrily, "This is absolute madness, making complete fools out of innocent peeps like me..."

He broke off from his monologue as he felt himself slipping. Sebastian's second companion, Skinny clicked the safety off, "Oi, don't move!"

Sherlock let out an all-suffering sigh, "I'm slipping!"

"Sleeping?!"

"Not sleeping, stupid," he snarled, "Slipping! SLIPPING—!"

He stopped abruptly as Sebastian approached him, eyeing his coat warily and then smirking up at him, "Take it off."

The size of Sherlock's eyes doubled and narrowed at the same time, "What the—no!"

"This maybe the last friendly thing you'll ever hear from a human mouth. Take your coat off, and give it to me."

Molly gulped behind him, and moved to ease the coat from Sherlock's shoulders as Sherlock watched as if his world had come to a halt. As if he was devastated.

"Sherlock, give him the coat—"

"You there!" Fatty pointed the gun at her, "Stay back."

Molly let out another little squeal and almost jumped back. Sebastian patted his shoulder as the roughnecks forced his beloved coat out of him, and handed it over to Sebastian, who wore it happily and eyed Sherlock approvingly, who looked much less like a conspiracy theorist sans the big black coat. Also, he looked close to tears.

"How do I look?" Sebastian asked him gleefully as Sherlock's jaw muscles clenched with anger and frustration and helplessness.

"Like a donkey," Sherlock didn't care if they killed him right there. He was going to have the satisfaction of seeing that don's face seething with anger. Instead Sebastian simply smiled and walked away, beckoning Fatty to himself.

"Get me the biodata and the horoscope of this smartarse. With history and political science. Immediately."

* * *

Sherlock reached the NSY building, feeling naked as hell at having his beloved coat taken away by a couple (actually a couple dozen) of street-dons who liked painting "real things". He stormed into Lestrade's office with no Belstaff swishing behind him dramatically. Donovan didn't even realise it was him until she spotted the riot of dark curls on his head.

"Lestrade, this is too much!" He crossed his arms and plopped down on the chair in front of him, missing the feeling of his coat. He had even lost his scarf, but Lestrade sipped his coffee contentedly and watched Sherlock's irritated face with an amused smirk on his face.

"Goo' mo'ing to you too!" He wolfed down the hotdog roll as Sherlock continued to throw his sulk at him, " 'Sup?"

"Those dons, Moran, he took my coat! And my scarf! Do you get it, Lestrade? It was a limited edition coat, and now its gone and all this happened before you even finished your morning snack! This is bloody outrageous!"

"Just the thing I needed to make this day worse. Good morning, freak!" Donovan entered, carrying a laptop over for him. "We've got a reply waiting for you on the dating website."

Sherlock turned away from her, trying to curl into an impossibly small place only to find out that the chairs were very uncomfortable, "Go away!"

"Some bloke called Victor Trevor. I bet your brother sent him for ya!"

Lestrade snorted into his coffee, and Anderson materialised in front of them out of nowhere. Sherlock frowned, "Victor—? Wait a second—"

"We know you like blokes, freak," Donovan crossed her hands over her waist, smiling as though she had had some grand epiphany yesterday, "It's okay, you don't have to hide it anymore."

"And we all know how Anderson is cheating on you and his wife, don't we Anderson?"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" Lestrade bellowed, taking his legs off his desk, "Let's focus on the matter at hand—"

"Matter?" Sherlock cried incredulously, "The matter is that law and order in London is crumbling like sawdust, Lestrade—!"

Now it was Lestrade's turn to laugh, "You? Caring about _law and order_? I break all laws letting you in on _my _crime scenes, you git!"

"That's another matter!" Sherlock protested, "This fellow caused a car accident just so that he could make a painting—!"

To his amazement, Lestrade started laughing hard and very inappropriately at that. Donovan's warning cough did nothing to stop that.

"—Molly was with me!" Sherlock spoke over his giggling, "She was scared to death."

Lestrade's laughter died away instantly, and he cleared his throat at once, "I'll of course, look into it, ahem! That was extremely unprofessional of me, sorry."

Sherlock settled back into his chair, "You better." After some moments of silence, Donovan began again, "Let's open it, then... Jesus, he's online! Freak, look here, he's online... and he sent you a PM!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I don't need to marry a man, it's got to be a woman, Sally!"

Lestrade leant forward in his chair, "But you're—"

"Man or woman, it doesn't matter!" Sherlock protested, "Anyway, I'm going to see that person in court—!"

To his utter annoyance, Greg coughed pointedly and entered into a staring contest with Sherlock. Sherlock knew that he would be refused cases if didn't agree to it. He took a deep breath. It was all for a case, but he had expected for a woman replying to him. He cast his eyes over the "Interested In", which proudly displayed "Men". Lady serial killer, S-A-Y-O-N-A-R-A. He had a hunch that Lestrade had made up the case so that Sherlock atleast joined the dating website.

_'Matchmaker,' your online source for finding true love._

And still he protested, "This isn't even the case—" He grumbled, but Lestrade kicked him from under the table. Sherlock tried to kick back but Lestrade was too quick for it.

"Fine, what a beautiful way to start the morning(!)" he let out a defeated exhale and clicked at the new "Hi". He had to admit, this Victor Trevor fellow was physically appealing.

* * *

In his mansion, Jim had been making a house of cards in his sitting room. He had gotten up to fifth storey in the last fifteen minutes, all the wrinkles in the world gathered near his eyebrows and his face taut with concentration. A few yards away, on a treadmill, his lawyer Crayhill had been jogging for the past half an hour as a punishment for the over-excitement during the meeting with the decent family the earlier evening. Jim's two companions, Legless and Baldy were cracking jokes on the poor Crayhill as he panted, exhausted and out of breath.

"Sorry sir, please sir," he kept chanting, but James Moriarty wasn't a man who forgave easily, and certainly not when a mad lawyer came in the way of his little brother and his happiness.

"What the hell, big brother!" came a jolly voice from the hall as Sebastian made his way to Jim sitting on the sofa, his fingers quivering as he started with the sixth storey of his house of cards, "I've been calling you since ages, and here you are, making house out of cards when you already have a mansion!"

To Jim's extreme annoyance, Sebastian exhaled a deep breath and the house of cards dropped down into a wasted pile like his dreams about setting his dear brother John free from his criminal world. Nevertheless, he didn't reach for his gun sitting beside him, waiting to fire bullets into Sebastian's brain. He loved his brothers, he remembered, and muttered to himself, "Control, Jim, control."

Sebastian took no notice of it.

"How do I look?" Seb showed up in front of Jim, showing off Sherlock's greatcoat, "Cool, huh?"

"You look like a fucking donkey," Jim snapped, and Seb laughed.

"At least I've been up to something more productive today. I know I've beaten the fuck out of Picasso Da Pablo Vinci today, he he!"

Jim started, wondering what Picasso Da Pablo Vinci was, "What?"

Sebastian beamed proudly at him, "Not me, look there. Over _there_." He motioned to the foyer where Seb's companions, Fatty and Skinny were holding a rendition of the accident scene up for Jim to see, grinning widely at their two bosses. By the looks of the painting, an accident was definitely not worth it. It was simply a litany of caricatures in black with a pink coloured ambulance and a very yellow coloured Sherlock kneeling over the bonnet of a green coloured London Black Cab.

At least he had got the curls right. The cheekbones done in two black strokes protruded right out of this face (literally).

Oh, and his scarf, which lay on Fatty's head in the picture was fluorescent pink, and his coat a weird colour that God hadn't invented yet. Seb grinned widely at his "masterpiece", and then turned to Jim, who rolled his eyes at him out of exasperation. He plucked a peanut out of an ashtray and ground it between his teeth, "Seems the German party ran away too..."

"Stupid wankers," Jim cursed, seeing no point in remaking the house of cards.

"May I ask you a question?"

Jim wasn't surprised in the slightest at the manner in which Seb actually requested to ask a question, he simply let out a defeated exhale. The handgun lying beside him was starting to look real friendly, "Go on."

"Is John your real brother?"

"He's much more than a "real" brother to me," Jim growled absentmindedly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know that," Seb scratched his head and crossed his legs, "But is he your _brother_ brother?"

"Because I'm such a bastard and he's such an angel, that's why you're asking, yes? Jacob Moriarty, my daddy married twice—"

"Yeah yeah, I fucking know that, bro. Daddy married twice, unlike John who can't even manage one!"

"One? What d'you mean by 'manage one'? We want him to marry _only _once unlike my—!"

"Exactly bro, control," Sebastian went on, "And that isn't happening, is it? No decent guy wants his boyfriend to be from a criminal establishment!"

Jim's eyes widened at that, "It astounds me that you can say 'establishment' properly."

Sebastian flushed with pleasure, "Don't go letting on sweet compliments to me, Jim." Jim looked for a hint of sarcasm in his voice. There wasn't any.

"If there's one thing I want for John," Jim leaned back against the sofa, "is that he goes away from me forever. I've lived my life in the risk that something would happen to him because of me, and I can't let that happen to him. I need him to start a new life, a better life without us so that he at least forgets what it was like living under the constant fear of being kidnapped or being held for ransom—"

"Exactly, brother, and that's what is gonna happen now," Sebastian clapped his hands in glee, snapping Jim out of the harsh memories of old times he had escaped into as he patted Jim's thigh before turning towards his masterpiece proudly, "Your problem's solve is in that painting of mine."

Jim squinted and focussed his eyes on the white canvas board, trying not to tell him that it was 'solution' not 'solve'. The harder he tried, the more it escaped him. Sebastian provided his helpful input, "Do you see that guy?"

His eyes narrowed as he tried to find a human figure in the caricatures, "What guy?" Seb turned to him, the smile fading at Jim's poor vision. He shook his head.

"Eh, the one sitting on the bonnet."

Now Jim looked for a bonnet. He wasn't sure what was what in the picture anymore, "Where's the bonnet?"

"Under the guy, obviously," Seb stated, obviousness dripping from his tone. Jim now could see the guy _and_ the bonnet.

"Right."

"He is the sort of guy who protests against anything, even if you say 'didn't' instead of 'doesn't' or the ones who cry . You know, like the decent ones do, always fighting for rights, like our John—"

"These decent ones are the worst ones on the planet, they don't understand the language of decency at all—"

"Right, and for that very reason, I'll solve this matter by myself. I'll have his biodata in my pocket by tomorrow, and I'll talk to this decent smartarse in my own style, or better, his family. I won't have you interfering at all."

Jim sagged against the arm of the sofa, propping his forehead against his palms and looking completely bored at that. He shook his head pre-occupiedly, and pushed Sebastian away as he rose to take the matter between John and this supposedly decent Sherlock in his own hands.

* * *

**Review?**


	3. Getting Himself A Boy (Johnny Style)

**I always thought that if a straight John could be so cheeky with women, maybe a gay John would be equally cheeky with men.**

**Be warned, this chapter is epic crack and defies some laws of physics (maybe, but I think it doesn't, but still). You can say that I was inspired by Hangover 2**

* * *

In Sherlock's opinion, men were worse than women. His date with Victor Trevor was starting to confirm that.

Victor was handsome, charming, moderately intelligent, seemingly normal. Fairly good looking and quite attractive, Sherlock decided although that really didn't matter to him except for the purposes of being eye-candy. He had no pets, so that was a welcome relief. He didn't try to flaunt himself, or his money or how successful he was and all the stupid things that men usually talked about. Mostly he was silent and he was occasionally funny. In fact their sense of humour was quite close (if you define the average distance between two stars as close). Sherlock, under the combined glare and support of Donovan, Lestrade and Anderson and under the extreme pressure of no cases, complied cheerfully while Donovan typed out most of his responses.

So, to the Victor on the other side of the line, Sherlock Holmes appeared to be a childish jerk whose sense of humour was quite close to his.

And now, on an actual date with Sherlock, it appeared like as if Victor had remembered each and every single of that.

Victor was handsome, charming, seemingly normal. Did Sherlock mention that he hated normal? Well, he wasn't disappointed, at least.

They headed to a really nice steakhouse somewhere in Knightsbridge where their "date" was going well enough. He seemed interested in the concept of 'a consulting detective' and Sherlock's childish view of the world. Sherlock's cheeks had begun to hurt when he looked around, feeling a little (extremely) bored and constantly counting down to the time his alarm app would signal that three hours were over and that he could take cases on again, and then, greyish sea green eyes met navy blue ones.

Blond, no, ash-blond, five foot six dressed simply in a jeans and a jacket over his button-down shirt, sitting over by the bar and eyeing him and his date. Sherlock forced himself to look away, feeling a little weird at the unnecessary attention being imposed on him from two sides. Was he looking _that_ good?

That man turned away, and Sherlock's stomach dropped back into the pit it was in. He thought that maybe if that stranger looked at him again, maybe he could save him from his disastrous date.

Sherlock looked back again. The man looked back too, and their eyes lingered over each others' faces. It was clear as hell that the stranger was reconsidering him, in fact attracted to him. It might have been a little less obvious if that stranger had shouted it out to everyone.

Sherlock turned away miserably. Of all the people in the world, why did the stranger have to be gay as well? Couldn't he have been a straight stranger, and just rescued him from Victor Trevor?

After appetizers and his third martini, Victor really opened up. And what entails "opening up", well...

Victor started to speak baby talk to him, "Would you wike a wittle kissy-wissy?"

Sherlock frowned, "Excuse me?"

"Aw," he joined his hands together and leaned forward, "Cho chweet! Excuse we!"

Sherlock was completely horrified. What the hell had gotten into Victor? Maybe it was the martini, "Erm... Victor, are you alright?"

To his utter horror, Victor reached out for his nonexistent cheeks and pinched them painfully, "Poor baby darling! Let me come there and give you a little wee-wee!"

With that, he reached over and in a clumsy imitation of the Eskimos, he rubbed his nose against Sherlock's callously He could hear the rest of the restaurant people jeering at that. Sherlock was definitely okay with not-normal, but not this.

Thankfully, the steaks arrived at that exact moment and Victor reached across the table to cut Sherlock's meat for him. Sherlock looked up at the waiter to see the same handsome blond smirking down at him in an all-unknown brand of pure amusement, this time in a waiter's uniform and serving them their steaks. Sherlock coughed down the humiliation at being treated like a baby and shoved Victor's knife away. Sadly, it wasn't sharp enough to cut through the epidermal layer of his skin.

He removed the lids to reveal the rare steak and a small gift card in it. Sherlock looked up at the blond man again, and looked down to read it.

**_7957905046. John._**

**_Text me if you're going through hell._**

Sherlock frowned at John's retreating figure and his eccentric way of hitting on Sherlock. Sherlock decided to take the fall. John seemed perfectly not-normal and interesting. No one usually talked to him without consulting for a case. John seemed a nice change, and at least anyone was better than Victor Trevor.

**_What's in it for you? SH_** Sherlock typed under the table as Victor continued to fuss over him and calling him mortifying names like "montu-shontu", "Winnie the Pooh" and telling him what a cute otter he would make and all about honey and "kissy-wissy"s.

He cast his eyes around to see John typing into his phone, a small smile dancing around his lips. Sherlock watched his facial expressions intently as Victor talked with his mouth full of food.

**_Saving your behind ;)_**

Sherlock rolled his eyes and found himself being watched by John.

**_Emoticons, really? And here I was thinking that you were... SH_**

His heart fluttered a little out of rhythm when he saw John typing his reply. He turned his attention back to the little phone under the table, eagerly awaiting his reply, and he had no idea why.

**_That I am what?_**

At once Sherlock began to type it rapidly, feeling John's eyes assessing him. Victor asked him out for a second date, and Sherlock did not respond.

**_You're not a waiter. You're a doctor, you have your private clinic, I can tell from this distance, and yet, here you are, serving me my steak. Why's that? SH_**

He did want to know that. At the first glance itself, John seemed to be full of contradictions and oxymorons, he definitely deserved to merit a second look, second glance by Sherlock. His mind had memorised John's existence exquisitely by now.

He glanced across at him. His eyes were not surprised, or even frightened. He looked... curious and a little wary of him. Why wary? Interesting.

**_How do you know that?_**

Sherlock tried not to smile at that as he typed his text.

**_Your ears. The inner pinna is slightly dented; hard earpiece of a stethoscope hence doctor. Plus, you pulled out the napkin the wrong way, hence definitely not a waiter. You're quite well off and you're not used to taking orders, that watch on your wrist and your manner at our table tells me that. You must have your own clinic. SH_**

He held his breath and sent it before he could rethink his decision. Time to see how really different John was. He saw John's eyes widen, a tongue snaking out and licking his lower lip carefully. His brows furrowed as he processed the explanation. Then, to Sherlock's complete surprise, John's face broke into a lopsided grin and he looked directly into Sherlock's eyes, his own gleaming with wonder, something that Sherlock was not used to at all.

**_Great, you know everything about me, and I don't even know your name. That was fantastic, by the way, and every single of that true._**

Sherlock let his lips twitch into a half smile, his whole body tightened and tensed and he felt a frisson of excitement amplifying out from his solar plexus and travelling down through all of his limbs, making his fingertips and toes tingle with anticipation.

**_Sherlock Holmes. You think that was brilliant? SH_**

"...And then, this baby comes up to me," Victor was saying some rubbish about planned parenthood and their comparison with cows and sheep, but Sherlock wasn't paying him one ounce of attention.

**_Absolutely. It was amazing..._**

Those words turned around the entire evening for Sherlock. He sent a smirk in John's direction and continued reading the rest of his text.

**_... my brother owns this place, so I can do whatever I want to. Including waiting._**

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at that. Definitely a rich guy. Sherlock desperately hoped John wasn't like other rich guys, snobbish and total dicks.

**_Amazing... that's not what people normally say. SH_**

He saw John frowning at that and instantly set down for texting.

**_What do people normally say?_**

**_Piss off. SH_**

Sherlock was a little pleased and a little alarmed to see John snort at that. When Victor began troubling him too much with the second date and how he would discuss various brands of nappies then, with a cough that was as curt as to be as rude as it could be, Sherlock excused himself to the lavatory to contemplate his escape routes.

"Do you need help wiping?" Victor asked, making Sherlock bolt right out of there and shut the door behind him.

A second later, the door opened behind him and someone called his name softly in an unfamiliar albeit soothing voice, "Sherlock?"

After some deeps breaths to control his less-than-steady heart, Sherlock turned around to see John in front of him, his mouth ajar and the beginnings of a sympathetic smile hanging around on the corners of his lips.

"Um, I was just listening in on your date. Your guy has put a pacifier on your plate. Do you... need to get out the back, maybe?"

Sherlock gulped, and looked at John hopefully, "You'd do that?"

John shrugged, "These guys allow me. Come on."

With that, John winded up sneaking Sherlock through the backdoor of the kitchen. As Sherlock wrapped his newest and longer scarf around his neck and looked at John, he found his attention completely fixed on the shorter man in front of him. He was alluring, he was different, he helped Sherlock and he couldn't be more grateful for saving him from a perfectly grown up man baby-feeding him his steak and—

"I'm John Watson," John extended his hand invitingly towards Sherlock. He took it, feeling his skin against his palms sensitive from the various chemical stains on them, "Sherlock Holmes, again."

John nodded like he was committing the name to his permanent memory, "If you wouldn't mind, maybe I can give you a chance to... know more about me," he licked his lips again, and Sherlock found himself watching it and mirroring his actions. A buzz interrupted the intense eyesex they were having.

**_Sneaked out on your date. Forty five min. No cases. Lestrade_**

Sherlock groaned when he spotted the CCTV camera near the entrance focussed on a Victor sitting all alone. John's eyes narrowed when he heard the groan but he did not dare to read the text. After all, he didn't know this Sherlock Holmes. He had only rescued him. And he'd like to know him, very much.

**_He was baby-talking to me. What else was I supposed to do? SH _**He sent the furious reply. John shuffled to his feet, "Erm... I hope I'm not distracting you."

Sherlock looked up from the phone to John, "I'm thankful that you did..." then his brows furrowed and he looked at John with the same suspicion with which John had surveyed him earlier, "Why... did you save me back there?"

John fought tooth-and-nail to hide a smirk as he straightened up, folding his arms behind his back, "I don't know... I thought you needed rescuing..."

"I didn't," Sherlock protested, "I was going to walk out of there anyway!" John stifled a snort at that as he crossed his arms, smiling amusedly.

"Really? Let's get you back there and see how well you cope."

Sherlock's eyes betrayed a moment of panic at that and then they masked themselves with haughtiness, "You were hitting on me. Back there... no one goes to such extraordinary lengths to rescue a stranger from a disaster date."

"Well," John shrugged sheepishly, "otherwise you would've blown up my restaurant."

That was a turn-off for Sherlock as he hurtled off in another direction. John realised he shouldn't have said that and cursed his stupidity at having blown off such an interesting and hot guy, if only a jerk.

"Hey, hey, hey," John grabbed Sherlock's arm, "Sorry, I'm sorry to offend you. I really am. Look, if there's anything I can do to make it up for you—"

Sherlock eyed the grip on his arm murderously, and John let go off him. He huffed irritably as if he were annoyed at John for having creased his precious suit-jacket.

"Well, if you need a ride, I can give you a ride home—"

Great, John bit his tongue. Just when he met a perfect guy, he had to blow it up by saying things he shouldn't say. If he were in Sherlock's place, he would probably have ripped their head off for suggesting such a thing.

Okay, maybe nothing as grotesque as that. But a punch in the gut, surely.

"I don't _need_ a ride home, I'm not a child!" Sherlock protested, but didn't storm off. John took it as a positive sign, at least.

"You don't need, I know... but I—I offended you, I'm sorry and I want to make it up to you."

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, and his brows furrowed even more dangerously when his phone buzzed and his face lit up under the synthetic light of his mobile phone, casting shadows around his face. John's heart stopped, because it seemed like Sherlock's decision depended upon the text which had just arrived.

With a defeated exhale, he accepted, showing John the much private rectangular slab that was Sherlock's jealously guarded phone. At least he seemed like the one who would jealously guard it. John observed a slight smile dancing around the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He told himself that it was because of him.

**_Tyre punctured, no cash. Pick me up at NSY or no cases. Lestrade_**

John let out a snort, the back of his mind still fixed on 'no cases', "Well, this Lestrade guy might be a jerk but at least he persuaded you for a ride with me."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath which suspiciously sounded like, "I'd have gone anyway." John congratulated himself and turned the engine on. He noticed that Sherlock simply didn't ask this Lestrade to stuff it but rather willingly got into John's car.

"So, you're a lawyer, huh?" He asked conversationally, eyeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eye while the better of his vision was fixed on the road in front of them leading into London. Sherlock gave a little cough of mortification fused with displeasure as the streets rolled past them.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, the guy did say cases."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I'm a detective. I believe the more appropriate term would be "consulting" detective."

John snorted at the air-quotes he made, trying not to let a tendril of unease seep into his mind at the mention of 'detective'. "What does that mean?"

"Means that I _pick_ my cases."

"How's that different from a private detective?" John asked, sounding a bit confused. Sherlock proceeded to explain it eagerly, seeing as no one had really asked him what his trade really was.

"Well, when detectives fail, all kinds like the police ones like his fellow," he showed him his phone, "they consult me and I manage to set them on the right track."

"That is if they don't punch you in the face first," John chuckled, and Sherlock appeared deeply surprised.

"How did you know _that_?" he whispered as if it ought to be a grand secret, or perhaps wondering how John had managed to deduce that. John was about to say that he was only joking when he really, _really _thought about it and thought that maybe he should say something much more interesting.

"Work it out," he said, throwing Sherlock a look from the dashboard mirror. Sherlock returned it with a smirk, feeling flattered by John's attentions. But—

"John," Sherlock brought out his well-prepared, well-practiced dialogue without thinking what he really wanted, "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I really don't have the desire to enter the curiously engaging concept of dating."

John let out a defeated exhale, "Alright, fine. But I'm doing this as a human being, not just because... you know..."

"I know what?" Sherlock tested him.

"Do you want me to throw you out of the car?"

"No problem, I can get a cab anytime."

John bit the insides of his cheeks. So, Sherlock wasn't interested. Moving on...

"Then... why were you on a date... with that pacifier guy?" John tried to reason it. Sherlock exhaled slowly.

"If you must know, I—watch out!"

John had almost slammed into a lamp post. A last minute swerve and several cursing drivers later, John, to Sherlock's extreme surprise, ended up in a laughing fit. He looked like he had gone into seizure. Sherlock shook his arm, "John?!"

"Jesus, that was just—God!" He burst out laughing, and Sherlock found himself chuckling with that. Minus the fact that they had just survived an accident, it felt wonderful to laugh together as one. John felt an immense desire to go back and repeat it again, just to feel that high, a high he had never felt before. People were starting to look at those two crazy blokes, but John didn't mind, and neither did Sherlock.

"We're crazy, aren't we? I swear you're crazy!"

"Well, you're the one who almost crashed your car into a lamp post," said he, chuckling slightly, and John nudged him in the ribs before making out of there again and towards New Scotland Yard.

After ten minutes, John and Sherlock had a bewildered Lestrade and Donovan in the backseat, watching the two in the front seat having intense (and awkward for them) eyesex punctuating every sentence that came out of John's mouth. They could see that this man was certainly not Victor Trevor, but anyway Lestrade was glad anyway that Sherlock was taking fancy to a guy finally.

Even though he claimed he didn't.

And it was very awkward for Lestrade and Donovan sitting there, watching the two of them.

"Oi, eyes on the road!"

John swerved dangerously close to another lamp post, making Sherlock chuckle with silent laughter as if it were a private joke between the two of them.

"So," Lestrade began, "Do you owe him money or something?"

John shot Sherlock an amused look, "Oh no, I met him this evening. I rescued him when his date put a pacifier on his plate."

Lestrade's mind fumbled to keep up. Pacifier? What? And they had met this evening and already had a private joke? Was he going to have to prepare for the Best Man's speech anytime soon? Perhaps the next Monday?

Donovan snorted with amusement, "Sorry _what_, freak? That—that Victor guy put a pacifier on your plate?!"

This time, John met Sherlock's eyes again, this time not crinkling with amusement but greeting him with a frown, "Freak?"

Donovan coughed to herself, reprimanding her unprofessional behaviour, "Nothing erm..."

"He's not a freak," John protested, but Donovan cut in.

"Yeah, you're saying this because he hasn't done—"

"Yes, he has told me about my whole life story just by looking at my ears and my manners. And that isn't being a freak—"

"John," Lestrade dived in, much to Sherlock's displeasure, "Eyes on the road, we're police officers."

Sherlock saw John stiffen slightly, but didn't over think it, took it as probably reluctance to spend the night in a cell, "Yes, sir."

Lestrade's lips twitched in amusement while he glared at Donovan, "Alright, good."

No one noticed Sherlock watching John out of the corner of his eye, as if re-evaluating his opinion of the man whose surprising character traits kept contradicting every new bit of information he gleaned from him.

"Oh bugger!" John swore. He seemed to be kicking hard at something. Sherlock figured that he couldn't be pressing the accelerator, they were just on the threshold of crossing the speed limit. Therefore the only other one could be—

"Tell me you guys won't freak out if I told you that the brakes have failed," John let it out all in one breath. Donovan let out a yelp, followed by a very undignified growl from Lestrade, "Pray tell me _what else we should DO!_"

"Shut up, Lestrade," Sherlock bellowed, "We need to think how to survive this—"

"SURVIVE?!" Donovan screeched, "We're going to die, you freak!"

"_What did you call him?!"_ John instantly sprang into angry mode as a result of the overdrive of adrenaline in his veins and in a blatant misuse of muscle power, broke the steering off.

"John, what the HELL?!" This time even Sherlock lost his artificial patience as John frantically tried to reattach the steering to the axle, "What the ACTUAL hell, John?!"

"I am bad luck!" John swore miserably, banging his fists on the dashboard as the car continued to wobble, dashing into any corner or any unsuspecting car it felt like.

"Save ME!" Donovan screamed to anyone who cared to listen, while Lestrade tried to fumble around for a nonexistent crucifix, saying his last prayers to a God he previously didn't believe in.

"Watch out!" Sherlock yelled at a flatbed lorry crossing their path. Everyone looked up at it with dread. How much worse could their day get?

"DUCK!" John shouted as he shielded his head, reaching out to shield Sherlock and himself from the impact. The roof of the car came into abrupt contact with the flatbed with a resounding, ear-splitting crash as the window panes and the windscreen smashed to bits and pieces. When they finally got up, Sherlock noticed that Lestrade was missing and that a very Lestrade-like scream was coming out of somewhere.

Somewhere from behind the out-of-control car.

"Sally!" Sherlock let out a yelp as he tried to relieve the pressure on Donovan's throat, only to see the extraordinary sight on the street.

"What the hell?!" he yelled upon seeing his scarf around Donovan's neck choking her, and Lestrade seated on the car roof being pulled through the street and holding on to Sherlock's scarf choking Donovan's throat. The drivers and the traffic police watched in amazement at Detective Inspector Lestrade was being drawn by a car while holding on to a navy blue scarf choking his Detective Sergeant's throat.

Donovan kept gasping for oxygen, as Sherlock shouted to John, "Keep driving!"

John kept trying to reattach the steering to the axle, "No problem! Where the hell is Lestrade?!"

"On the street!" Sherlock bellowed back as he finally succeeded relieving the pressure on her neck. She coughed and spluttered violently in the backseat as Sherlock screamed to John.

"Take off the seat belt!"

John turned to him, looking at Sherlock as if he was completely out of his mind, "Are you mad?"

"Unfasten the seat belt!" Sherlock repeated, holding on to the scarf, knowing that Lestrade would probably be run over by a car if he let go of him.

John proceeded to unfasten his seatbelt, almost succeeding in doing so when Sherlock noticed and remedied him, "Not yours, mine. MINE!"

John looked like he suddenly had a very grand epiphany and went to unfasten the seatbelt across Sherlock's torso. Within minutes, it came apart as Donovan lay useless at the back of the car, still spluttering, breathing with discomfort. Sherlock took the scarf, and tied it around the broken door carefully, like a painter applying his final touches. Lestrade kept screaming as Sherlock bellowed to him.

"Take the scarf, and pull yourself onto the car!"

His eyes widened, because Sherlock had asked him to do the necessary and yet obviously impossible.

"No way. No _fucking_ way!"

"Trust me, Gavin!" Sherlock shouted, "Try and stand up. Donovan and I will hold on to your hand—"

"It's Greg!"

But before they could react, they could hear the sounds of a mob somewhere down where the car was headed.

"We shall die, but we will not move!" Came the united chorus of the protesters down the road. John, Sherlock and Donovan stared at the demonstration, complete with placards and slogans, in horror.

"What the fuck?!"

"We shall die, but we will not move from here!" The protest rally were seated in the middle of the road. Most of the other cars were taking diversions to avoid the rioters.

It was indeed a _lovely_ day.

Donovan pointed to them in panic, "They're saying they aren't going to move!"

"You have to move!" John cried out, "Brake's failed!"

The tires screeched against the tar road as it made right for the head of the rioters like a bowling ball aimed for the pins. In a second, the entire crowd of construction workers cleared the area like ants scurrying away from under a trampling elephant. Lestrade kept screaming Sherlock's name out of panic and acute fright as Donovan held on to Sherlock's scarf as tightly as she could.

"Sherlock!" Donovan took his real name for the first time, "Take my legs!"

Sherlock didn't have time to spin around and frown, "What?!" at her, because at that very moment, the car gave an almighty lurch as it passed over a speed breaker. Donovan was literally lifted off the car, rested in mid-air and came to a landing behind Lestrade, now both of them holding on to Sherlock's brand new scarf, while John was too tossed off his seat and ended on his stomach on the bonnet, trying to grab whatever remained of the dashboard. Sherlock, who had been holding on to his seat remained rooted to the very spot he was in.

More people watched the show. One man on bonnet, one man in the seat adjacent to the driver's, and the DI and the DS surfing on the roof of the car holding on to a navy blue scarf. The demonstrators promptly went back to their peaceful protest, "We shall die, but we will not move!"

Now Sherlock was in real dismay. John, the one guy he really liked, was perched out on the bonnet calling for help from Sherlock, and on the other side Lestrade and Donovan, his long-standing colleagues who were the only ones consulting him for cases, were calling for his help. With one arm, he could hold on to John's hand, and with the other, he could barely reach Lestrade and Donovan.

"Sherlock, don't let go of us!" Donovan shrieked, "I'll never call you a freak, promise!"

"Sherlock, do something!" John yelled. Sherlock fumbled around helplessly, completely at his wits' end as John tried to pull himself up the bonnet and into the car when Sherlock spotted the redemption.

There was a mini lorry right in front of them. And a green ladder was poking out of its cargo. Yes, when the lorry came to a stop, the car would too, and they could all get off safely.

"Hang on, John!" Sherlock shouted, not letting go of John's hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, I _fucking_ let you in on cases and this is how you repay me?!"

"I'll do something!" Sherlock screamed, and holding onto John's hand, he stood on the car seat extending his other hand towards the ladder.

"Careful, Sherlock!" John shouted.

With enormous effort and shrieks from John, Lestrade and Donovan alike, Sherlock managed to pull the ladder towards the car and fit the headrest snugly between the two rungs of the ladder. John held on to the ladder as Sherlock tried to fix the other end of it to the lorry.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? What the fuck are you—?"

"Stop it Gavin! You're thinking, it's annoy—" But Sherlock could never finish his sentence as the car gave another lurch upon hitting another speed bump and Sherlock ended up on the ladder, unable to reach John or the car itself.

"Stop the bloody lorry!" He screamed, "STOP IT!"

"Sherlock!" John let out a panic-seized yell, while Donovan looked like she was about to faint.

"Oh dear God," Sherlock muttered calmly to himself upon seeing that there was a dead end ahead of them, and that the lorry was turning the other way, leaving the car to head out straight for the Tower Bridge just beginning to open for a ship to pass through.

"NO!" Everyone shouted in unison as the car spiralled out of control and made its way through the road blocks, making its ascent as the bridge became steeper. Lestrade seeing that he could make a safe landing, let go of the scarf as some of the car's kinetic energy decreased upon making the ascent. But the car had developed too much momentum, so much that it shot out from one end to the other end of the Tower bridge, with John and Sherlock almost in mid-air, with screams that they definitely couldn't hear, not with the blood surging in their ears.

The car came to a stop only as it smashed the road blocks on the other side of the bridge, causing the police to stare open-mouthed at the spectacle. The car ran several streets before it finally came to a stop near an alleyway. With gasps that they were sure that weren't theirs, Sherlock rolled into the driver's seat and pulled John to safety. He really wasn't sure what to say after they had escaped such a stunt in front of half the London and a wide viewership from the steamer which was currently passing under the Tower Bridge.

"J—ohn," he exhaled a shaky breath, his head spinning, his feet wobbly and all the blood in his body deserting his heart and making its way to his fingers, so red that they could burst out any time.

"Christ, _Sherlock_!" John gasped, trembling beside him. They weren't sure what could've been more marvellous than this, "We just—we just did a stunt—a stunt over the _fucking Tower Bridge_, Sherlock, and I don't even know you... and my car's gone too and I don't even care," he slumped against Sherlock, _"That_ was utter madness."

"I know—" Sherlock gasped, his voice much, _much_ steadier than his heart, "—it felt marvellous, John."

John was still breaking shakily, through his mouth, "I swear—you're mad."

Sherlock looked at him, steadying himself, "Would you rather have me mad, John Watson?" He knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.

The realisation that he wanted John was nothing compared to the high that solving crimes gave him. His whole body was keyed up, pumped, saturated with adrenaline running at a hundred miles per minute, like a motorbike racing against the death angel, its engine revved up, vibrating, ready to burst, ready to go into overdrive, 225 horsepower plus. Nothing could hold a candle to the intensity of its nuclear immolation.

John was made for him.

The realisation was terrifying. It was wonderful.

"Oh God, _yes_!" John gasped, burying his fingers in Sherlock's hair, and closing the distance between them.

* * *

**Review?**


	4. Operation Happy Marriage's Go In And Out

**Sorry for the delay. I was hibernating during the monsoons here. Hope this sort of makes up for it.**

**Warning for strong, abusive language and some cross dressing.**

Sherlock surged forward, capturing John's lips in a brutal kiss of tongue and teeth. John tensed in surprise at first, but he immediately relaxed against him with a stifled moan. John felt Sherlock's hand unbuckling John's belt, his fingers fumbling even though never he had fumbled with his, or anyone's trousers before. But John, ever the lovely little innocent lamb, stopped him.

"John, please, I _need _this," Sherlock pleaded softly, and John snarled.

After kissing for some time, John broke away breathlessly. Before he could properly enjoy the annoyed look of Sherlock's face, Sherlock grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer, assaulting his mouth with his and pinning John's smaller body under him as he melted into the kiss. One of Sherlock's hands was pressed into the small of his back, holding him firmly, and not altogether gently, against him, the other was still hooked around his wrist, refusing to let go even when John clumsily lifted his arm to cup Sherlock's face with both his hands. Sherlock's skin was ice cold, and smooth as wind-levelled rock.

"I think—perhaps—we should—talk. . . about this," John panted between presses of Sherlock's lips against his own, Sherlock's teeth catching against his jaw and earlobe.

"Dull," Sherlock replied, and nips at his throat. John gasped, not able to stop the high whine that stole from his throat, "Not there!"

But Sherlock was going to have none of it. His tongue was inside of John's mouth before he could gather his thoughts into a coherent order. Sherlock's tongue was warm, familiar against his as if this wasn't the third time they were kissing at all, but it was that wet, velvety sensation that suddenly awoke him to what they were doing.

"Are you mental?" A giggle forced out of John's throat as Sherlock watched, measured his panting breath, "The car doesn't even have a roof!"

Sherlock laughed at that, and draped John's small jacket over them. It didn't even cover his shoulders. Of course, John wasn't going to make out in a public place. He had standards, after all.

"Not here," he almost pleaded again, as though he was asking Sherlock not to argue with him or scratch himself in public. Sherlock scoffed and pulled himself off him with a chaste kiss.

"There's no motel around."

"Fine, we're left with the street," John sat straight up and tried his best to hide the boner tenting out of his trousers.

"What do you want to do then?" Sherlock snarled, sounding like he had been just asked to carry the burden of the world on his shoulders and then kicked for accepting the offer, "Wait for a tow truck?"

John flushed badly at that, "How far is your house?"

Sherlock smirked triumphantly, "Miles away, I might change my mind."

John pushed him away angrily, "Fine then, we'll have to get into another car!"

Sherlock leaned forward to John's surprise and planted a full-mouthed kiss on his lips.

"I thought you'd never ask."

The bonnet was gone and the engine sat there, spilling sulphuric acid all over the street. It looked like the car had taken a cigarette break as clouds of smoke enveloped the place, making the streetlight above them seem hazy. The red bricks on the ground were crumbling and chipped away; moss was growing between them. A dog was scavenging for a supper in the dumpster. Rats were making merry near a leaking pipeline. The ladder was still stuck to the car It was possibly the worst place to make out, going by John's usual standards, Sherlock thought. With a flourish of hand, he opened the broken door, which resulted in it coming completely apart from its hinges and narrowly missing his toes as it fell to the street with a heavy clang.

He lent his arm out to John, offering for him to take it with a sly smirk on his face.

And John, the little innocent sweet _daring_ wolf in lamb's skin, followed his master home.

* * *

After a dizzyingly embarrassing and almost crazy round of condom and lube shopping in all the general stores in the area, Sherlock and John broke their way into a car, getting hot and heavy in the backseat because Sherlock was too impatient to look for a motel. Sherlock had taken John's shirt off and was trailing his fingers, tracing the network of veins and the bump of muscles on John's arms, his tongue deep in John's throat and John's legs around his waist.

"Sherlock—_unngh_," John made noises that vibrated against his skin, lighting up minute points of electricity under his skin as Sherlock trailed downwards, beginning his work on a fresh patch of skin that he hadn't marked yet. "Feels so—"

Sherlock was panting, his breath hot and muggy against John's neck. John had already undone three of Sherlock's buttons, the rest came quickly after. John yanked his shirt open and proceeded to return the favour. He let out a surprised yelp as he felt Sherlock's palm tracing the curve of his arse. Sherlock quickly silenced him with a kiss.

With one hand he cupped John's face the way John had done his in his car. He pressed his other hand against the material of John's trousers, pulled taut by the straining of his rapidly hardening member. John gasped and rolled into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock's face was close to his and burning with a fierce red flush. His eyes were burning too, bright and intensely lustful. He had never seen Sherlock that way, never expected things to move so fast. He was in the most uncomfortable position, pinned under Sherlock's thighs legs straddling his hips, on his back with a taller man on top of him.

He had never felt better.

"Jesus_ Christ_, Sherlock!" John moaned into his mouth as Sherlock pressed his lips to his.

"Stop taking the Lord's name like that," Sherlock snapped, and John's eyes widened.

"Holy Mary, Sherlock," he scoffed, "You're religious?"

"Just kidding," he winked as he palmed John roughly through the trousers. John tipped his head back with a moan.

"You're such a horny little shit."

"Look who's talking," Sherlock simpered as he unzipped John's jeans and slipped his fingers inside, fondling his crotch. John moaned softly and kissed Sherlock's mouth again and again to stop hearing those embarrassing noises himself.

"Well you're the one. . . who's taking advantage of the remote spot. . . by the way," John gave his left nipple a naughty pinch, "who's car is this?"

"Unimportant," he drawled.

John laughed, pushing back at him and stroking his tongue against Sherlock's before taking Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a naughty nibble. Sherlock's arms found their way around John's waist and he gasped as Sherlock grabbed two firm handfuls of his arse and pulled his groin sharply forward. Sherlock chuckled, mouthing his way down John's jaw, licking and nibbling a trail along the smooth curve of his neck. John insinuated a thigh between Sherlock's legs and slowly, meaningfully, rubbed at him with it.

Sherlock's eyes glittered a darker, fiercer silver-grey and he pulled back to undress John fully and pin him under himself with his weight. John turned them over and pushed Sherlock back onto the backseat, but kept his hands on Sherlock's chest to slowly unbutton his dress shirt, chasing each newly exposed bit of skin with an open-mouthed kiss. He nibbled at the tender spot below Sherlock's navel before pulling the shirt from Sherlock's trousers and beginning to unbuckle Sherlock's belt.

"I thought you were half-a-virgin or something," John chuckled breathily as Sherlock lay back, propped himself up on his elbows and then tensed as John's tongue lapped at his abdomen. He was more than half-hard and he shuddered as John palmed him roughly through his trousers.

"Wait—"

"No," John interrupted. "I am done with waiting for tonight. We are both through with waiting."

With that, he undid Sherlock's flies, pushing trousers and pants down. Sherlock avoided looking at himself when he knew how embarrassingly hard he was. He knew John was taking in every inch of it, he could almost feel John's eyes on it, caressing it and touching it.

John threw him a smirk before taking Sherlock's cock in his hand and licking a vulgar stripe from root to tip; and then, without hesitation, John proceeded to swallow him down until the head of Sherlock's cock hit the back of his throat.

"Ah, John!" Sherlock lifted a hand, pushed his fingers through John's hair and groaned. John pulled off with a firm, wet suck and Sherlock tossed his head back and whimpered as he bucked his hips up. John sat up to enjoy the look of annoyance on Sherlock's flushed face.

"Stop teasing me," Sherlock gasped when John's fingertips brushed against the skin on his inner thigh. Over and over again up to his groin, twisting his pubic hair around the first joint of his index finger.

"Sorry love," John said, chuckling lightly. He paused, seeming to decide something, and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's frenulum before saying, "I'm a sadist, in a manner of speaking, but then, you're my inspiration, you know."

Sherlock shook his head resignedly. "I've created a monster."

John kissed the head softly as Sherlock whimpered, "I am a wolf in sheep's skin, gorgeous."

"Don't go letting me on endearments, John," Sherlock threaded his fingers with John's, "You've no idea what you're getting yourself into."

John smiled a sinful smile as he palmed his crotch. Sherlock rolled his hips, tilted his head back and shivered with anticipation at the contact. When the fingers coiled around the shaft, Sherlock bit on his lower lip to muffle a soft moan.

"Would you like to tell me?"

"Are you going to get on with it?"

A moment of hesitation was all Sherlock needed to push John off his lap and onto his back. The darkness made everything markedly more haphazard but it rendered every little detail remarkably sharp in his imagination. The sensation of John's warm skin, his breath, every line of his body, every sound he made was all too overwhelming. John moaned against his lips, rolling his hips against him. Whether it was conscious or unconscious Sherlock wasn't certain, but it sent a shot of pressure straight to his crotch.

He wrapped his arms around him and kissed him in earnest. He had never met a man who had been just so perfectly made for him, a man for whom he could let everything go, for whom he could even disobey his mother's dying promise to meet a girl and settle down surrounded by a white picket fence and ride cows and toads all evening. Their bodies fit together obscenely well as Sherlock fumbled to let his trousers drop to his knees. The car rocked quietly beneath them and soon the small interiors of the vehicle was filled with the musky smell of their sweat mingling together.

He felt John arch up against him as his lips reached the skin below his navel. He could feel John's legs wrapping around his waist as Sherlock reached around in the darkness for lube. "Sherlock," John said breathlessly. "Sherlock, this is such a bad idea."

Sherlock wished that the earth could open its maws and swallow him whole. He couldn't remember where he had put the condoms. He couldn't remember where the lube was. He couldn't even figure out which end was which in the dark.

"How do you want me?" John asked breathlessly.

He slid his hand between John's legs and gently took his cock in hand, caressing the underside with his fingertips. John groaned, thrusting his hips upward in a fruitless attempt to create friction against Sherlock's gentle touch.

"Dying," Sherlock replied, hitching a leg over his shoulder and squirting a generous amount of lube onto his fingers.

"Oh no, no," Sherlock smirked, as John resisted fruitlessly against Sherlock's attempts to open his legs, "Spread those legs wider for me, Mr. Watson," he said, feeling his way up John's thighs. John moved his legs further apart with difficulty. Sherlock found his entrance with his fingers. He gently slipped one slick finger inside before John had time to tense up.

"Impatient, are we?" Sherlock simpered when John began to rock on his lone finger, "Maybe I should just finger you until you come."

John let out a whimper as Sherlock watched his face however well he could with the scanty streetlight falling into the windows. John slammed a palm against a window, his handsome features screwing up in the anticipation of the next finger.

The secrecy, the hurry, the bursts of adrenaline somehow made the whole thing a thousand times more intense than it would've been with any other man for Sherlock. He knew that he had broken into a car, although what car exactly, he hadn't bothered to deduce. He'd never been so caught up in somebody else. Part of it is just blind lust compounded by the fact that they'd constantly got their ears pricked for approaching footsteps or noises or people in general. Short, intense bursts of adrenaline, John's mingled sounds of moans, breaths and luminous giggles and his physical lust, the _need_ for release were driving Sherlock completely crazy.

Sherlock added another finger. John made a choking sound beneath him, his nails curling into Sherlock's shoulders. "Ugh! Ah... I'm okay. I'm f-fine, Jesus Christ, I'm fine," he said shakily, as if not believing himself that he was fine. "Do it."

Sherlock had to bite his lip hard to stop from crying out as John's lower body was pinned perfectly against his, his legs hooking around him with surprising ease given how little he could see. Just, _just_ to see John go completely crazy under him, he added a third finger, rubbing them against his prostate as much as he could.

"That's enough," John said, his voice frayed. "I n-need you _now_."

Sherlock tore the packet and slipped the condom onto his cock. He pushed himself slowly inside of him. John arched against him with a silent scream. Sherlock's hand grasped the back of John's head, hair getting caught between his fingers and in his nails. The car let out a quiet sound as John rolled his hips into his, wanting more of him.

"J-John," Sherlock let out a groan, as John closed his eyes. No, Sherlock wanted him to open his eyes, to see that it was him who was going to take him apart, to print and embed the realisation deep within his bones and carve it into his flesh among all the supposed injuries he must have endured throughout his life and collected their marks on his body.

"Open your eyes and look at me," Sherlock said, suddenly overcome with irrational need. It was he who was going to take him apart. As if it could be mistaken. As if it could be anybody else at that moment. John's eyes were so dark as he opened them, so blown apart with lust that they could take Sherlock apart, could absorb him whole until nothing remained in existence.

"You're. . . you're inside me. . ." John exhaled, as if he could hardly believe it even having known it since almost half-an-hour. Sherlock's whole body shuddered at the vocalization of it.

"Yes."

John moaned into his ear, as he pulled out and took a gasp of air. He felt like hadn't breathed properly all night. He pushed back into him and John released a helpless whimper. Sherlock knew he was fighting back the urge to scream, every few moments he heard him throw his hand to his mouth and make a desperate sound into his palm. Sherlock had to control himself from screaming too, screaming like a mad man. Well, people called Sherlock crazy anyway.

When Sherlock shifted his hands to John's hips to yank him down into the thrusts, John only rolled his hips upwards with a needy whimper. Just that thought made Sherlock thrust harder, himself panting open-mouthed, beyond words for the moment. Who knows what obscenities or atrocities or endearments could tumble out.

"Oh shit!" Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled himself out of John, who groaned at the loss.

"What's happened?" He asked breathlessly, following Sherlock's suit. He was. . . wearing his clothes back. Why? John's heart dropped to a pit as low as Sherlock's voice was now.

"Wear your clothes back," Sherlock spoke urgently, "We need to get out of here. Your racket woke the whole neighbourhood up."

"Fuck, Sherlock." John swore, "You can't just do _that_ and start to dress up like nothing was happening!"

Ignoring him, Sherlock struggled to tuck himself into his bespoke trousers, which did nothing to hide the obvious erection. But in the end, he let it slip when he saw that John didn't bother to dress up. As much as he wanted to turn him around and shag him senseless right there, surrender to the passion they were building up, they needed to go.

"There's police outside."

* * *

Ten minutes later, John was putting his clothes back on while being escorted out of the car by a police officer. Sherlock was behind the wheel and had to convince the cop that he was sober while John had to swear up and down that he was undressing of his own volition before he let them go. Sherlock and John ran away from there before the policeman realised that it wasn't their car.

Sherlock shifted closer to John as they walked in the dark miserably, each trying to hide their erections from each other where they had both been indulging in gratuitous dirty talk only minutes before.

"So," John began awkwardly as he linked his hands with Sherlock's, the latter leaning into his touch, "Our first time was a complete disaster."

Sherlock straightened his curls, "Yeah, it was."

Suddenly, they ended up laughing hysterically at all that had happened since the evening: Sherlock's disastrous date, brakes failing, the epic stunt over the Tower Bridge and being caught by a policeman during sex, all in all. . .

"Jesus, Sherlock," John cackled, "What the fuck was all _that_?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock came closer and wrapped his arms around John's waist, "But I'll remember the day throughout my life."

"Me too," John spoke, before he was cut off by a gentle kiss, "But let's. . . get a room, you know, before you get all hard enough to fuck through steel, yeah?"

Sherlock shoved him away, "I might change my mind, John, if you talk to me like that."

John simply sneered, "No you won't."

Sherlock smiled against his lips, before taking his hand in his, "No, I won't."

* * *

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes sighed as he leaned an elbow against the counter of Mrs. Hudson's little cafe where he looked vastly out of place in his pristine three-piece Paul Smith, eyeing the little pastries over the newspaper headline saying 'Stunt Over The Tower Bridge' and behind the price labels sadly as he wondered for the umpteenth time what had exactly possessed him to get married and settle down. When he had been a bachelor, he had been happy enough pretending that he was on a rigorous diet while thrusting every poor pastry or candy meeting his line of sight into his mouth.

And now that Andrea fussed over him even with managing her work from her Blackberry with one manicured-fingered hand, instead of his efforts to keep it the fussing over in the opposite direction, he went through only one cake per day.

And he was frustrated. Only five months more, he thought to himself, and then Andrea would be busy with herself, a baby and a Blackberry. Or maybe not, Mycroft thought. If there was one thing he had learnt, it was to never underestimate Andrea's multitasking capabilities.

Caring was definitely not an advantage, he thought.

And now, he was here to sit and shout at Mrs. Hudson, who hadn't submitted to him proper bookkeeping records of the little cafe since the inauguration, despite her extreme talent for recordkeeping during her little fling time in Florida when Sherlock had saved her from Big Frank.

Mycroft Holmes valued organisation over all things in his life, and Mrs. Hudson was straining to the exactly opposite goal. The tired old lady donned a quick apron and then she spotted Mycroft leaning over the counter, eyeing eatables the way a child would eye toys at a shop.

"You will turn around, Mycroft Holmes," she ordered, "and you'll march your impertinent, self-centered arse out of this place or else I'll be calling Andrea right now. . . no wait, I won't do that, she's pregnant, the blessed soul! How's she?"

Mycroft sighed. He could never get the measure of that woman, "I'm not here to _kidnap_ eatables, Mrs. Hudson, as you very inappropriately put it—"

"Why not?" She protested shrilly, "You kidnap everyone, even kidnapped Andrea as a surprise marriage proposal. . ." and then she went quieter, "not that anyone told me about it."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, "I'm going to murder Sherlock for this. . . that's the not the point anyway," he often wondered to himself how _this_ particular woman managed to derail him from his thought processes when a dozen foreign diplomats well-versed in human behaviour and psychology couldn't.

Mrs. Hudson cocked an eyebrow at him, "Yes?"

"You haven't given me a single sheet of your book records ever since I set you up in—"

"Woo hoo, customer, busy-busy!" Mrs. Hudson called out, instantly rushing away from Mycroft towards the imaginary customer who had supposedly rung the bell. Mycroft huffed in annoyance, tapping the end of his umbrella on the floor.

"Do that!" He called after her retreating figure, "Whenever I have to talk to you about accounts, you have imaginary customers to attend to! I am a middle class British man, not a factory of pound sterling whose loss settings are set to 'never'!"

"No free cakes for you," she called out, "seeing as you contribute to half the "sales" of the cafe!"

The landline near the counter rang out. Mycroft tapped the end of his umbrella on the floor impatiently as it rang out clearly in the little overcrowded cafe. He tried to ignore it, but no one bothered to answer it, and seeing as it was technically his cafe after all (and because of his OCD), he picked it up angrily, as if about to explode over the phone, "Hello?!" He barked irritably.

* * *

"Hello?!" Mycroft Holmes' tenor travelled over the phone line and sounded a fake electronic version of his voice in Sebastian Moran's phone set to loudspeaker mode. The man asked next, in a derisive mock of a Subway waiter, "How may I help you?"

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow at an impeccably dressed Jim, who sipped coffee from a fake RAMC mug John had gifted him on his eighteenth birthday. They were strutting around their ranches, with bodyguards surrounding the place everywhere one could set their eyes upon. Jim's companions, Legless and Baldy trailed behind them like an ever-present shadow. A couple of jockeys were managing Silver Blaze, the fastest horse that Jim had presented to John when he had turned eighteen. Of course, John loved horses more than cars, but then he couldn't just take his horse out on the streets, could he?

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" Sebastian cooed happily at his irritated voice, "Business is coming along well, I presume?"

He could hear a tired sigh over the phone, "Business is coming along very well, first class, A grade, and my holds are bursting with swag! There's riches raining thunderstorms down on me!" He barked out a humourless laugh.

Sebastian grinned broadly. "Good boy! Some light showers for us too, if you don't mind, then. . . four mil, deli as soon as you can."

Seb and Jim could practically hear Mycroft frowning over the line, "Deli?"

"Deliver," Sebastian elaborated, " 'deli' means 'to deliver', TO DELIVER!"

"Listen, this is a cafe, mister," Mycroft's tone had become patient once more, "Not some mill. Wrong number."

"Oi idiot, 'mil' means 'million'. Million, get it, you empty skulled organism?"

Jim snorted into his coffee, laughing at Sebastian absurd choice of insults, and his two companions followed his suit. Sebastian aimed a kick in his direction, at which Jim only turned his attention back to the dramatic pause on Mycroft Holmes' side of the line.

"Oh!" Mycroft let out the syllable a tad little longer than a normal human being would've let out, "Millions? And that too, four?" And now his voice became extremely irritated as he managed the next set of words as politely as he could, "was it your daddy who left it here for you or was it your momma?"

On the other side of the line, Jim snorted into his pirated RAMC mug for the second time, giggling shamelessly and supporting himself on the wicket fencing of the ranches in order to prevent himself from collapsing into a heap of skin and bones out of humour. He had never heard anyone talk to Sebastian like that, whether on phone or not. Jim's companions followed suit again, turning their faces away from Sebastian and laughing like mad men. Seb gritted his teeth as he glanced at his stepbrother and his companions openly making fun of the great Sebastian "Romeo" Moran. He cleared his throat in an effort to retain whatever dignity remained of him.

"Oi, Guy Fawkes' cracker, I'll burn the heart outta you!" Sebastian growled in an attempt to show off his dominance, while Jim's laughter turned into a scowl at Sebastian's free-of-cost use of his dialogues. "Do you know who I am? D'you even know who you're talking to? Romeo Moran, Romeo Moran!" He went to lean against the wicket fence away from a sulking Jim, "Never heard of me, have ya?"

"Sure," Jim's sulk became a chortle again as he heard Mycroft's tired, polite tenor over the line, "How kind of you to repeat it twice for me, _Romeo Moran speaking, Romeo Moran_," he imitated Seb's manner flawlessly as Jim kept fumbling around for more support to keep himself from succumbing to the grassy field in laughter, "So what? Do I sound like it matters to me, useless?"

"Are you fucking insane?" Seb growled, losing his temper, "I'll come over there and finish you right now. I'm asking for the weekly protection money, you imbecile, protection money!"

"Oh, protection?" Mycroft's voice was thickly laced with amusement, "So you need protection? You "deli" me four "mil" and I'll provide you protection. And if you want four kicks to your shin, call me again and I'll be most happy to oblige," Sebastian, feeling thoroughly insulted, turned to look at Jim dying of laughter as Mycroft kept barking politely into the phone, "If I don't turn you into Juliet from Romeo, then I won't remain Mycroft Holmes anymore!"

The dial tone was the next thing Sebastian heard before he felt completely 'S'ed of his dignity. FYI, S'ed stood for 'stripped' in Seb's dictionary.

"That son of a bitch abused me. Motherfucking wanker, like the younger one!" He swore, wearing his leather jacket back as Jim laughed gleefully behind his back.

* * *

That turned out to be a ghastly mistake for Mycroft. Yes, you read it right. For Mycroft. Because Mycroft was a master when it came to plotting and planning and then acting. He had no power when it came to classic intimidation. He even lost to Sherlock when it came to the game of "American Chopsticks".

Within an hour, as Mycroft gave away his credit card for five cakes and told Mrs. Hudson that he might be forced to deport her to Cuba or Antarctica if he didn't give her copious amounts of cream-loaded cakes he desired, four black limos crowded the narrow Baker Street and jammed the traffic for exactly thirteen minutes and seven seconds. As Mycroft sat in a quiet corner licking his fingers, ignoring Andrea's text informing him about four bulletproof limos with armed men in them headed for Baker Street because he thought that she was probably reminding him of his diet by checking the security footage of Baker Street, relishing the excellent culinary skills of Mrs. Hudson who had gone away to Tesco to purchase some ingredients for the next batch of pies and bakeries, a bunch of armed men arrived and grabbed Mycroft by the lapels of his fine tailored suit jacket while the rest drove the other customers out of there and created a full mess of the little cafe.

"Get outta here," one of them growled to a particularly rebellious teenage boy who didn't want to be sent away, "Tell your mummy that this cafe's closed from now on!"

"Wh-what's this—?" Mycroft managed to stammer out, not used to physical force being used on him. Seb's companions, Fatty and Skinny arrived, leering at Mycroft.

"You'll turn our Romeo boss into Juliet, eh? We'll make _you_ into Juliet," Fatty growled as Skinny restrained a baking apprentice from calling the police. "You get that skirt and garters from the car," he ordered to one of the tough, armed bodyguards, "You go get that bra and the makeup kit. I'll make him into a proper Juliet, son-sorry-daughter of a bitch."

It took approximately seven-and-a-half-minutes to cross-dress the British Government. By the time Sebastian arrived, strutting in his hip shirt, diamond studded belt and leather shoes and jacket, Mycroft was trembling. It was difficult to tell whether out of fury or out of acute fright.

Sebastian took in the sight of him, black stockings, though, held up by suspenders, and those drew attention to his thighs, his calves, slenderizing them. A purple negligee shimmered over his torso, down to his upper thighs. A bit of pink lace ornamentation at the bottom, which matched the headband Mycroft had been forced to wear, a pink flower. Definitely a touch of mockery there. The boys had done an amazing job with his makeup, though. Red lips, long lashes. Definitely feminine, and definitely not something anyone is used to from Mycroft Holmes. Sebastian let out a faux-admiring gasp, as he took off his special glasses which parted from the centre.

"Now you look like a proper Juliet: black, pink, red, yellow. . ." he clicked a photo as Mycroft's face burned with embarrassment, "take him away"

"Romeo boss, Romeo boss. . ." Mycroft gasped humanly, never used to such treatment. While yielding and entreating on the surface, Mycroft had already begun to weave plans to destroy Romeo Moran once he made his way safely out of there and into the security of the Diogenes Club, "This-this is all a huge misunderstanding. . . I—I—I'm sorry, Romeo boss, I- thought, I thought someone was messing over the ph-phone. . . I—I wouldn't have sp-spoken to you l-like that, you know."

"You wouldn't have spoken to me like that?" Sebastian pouted, imitating his rabbit-scared eyes rather well, "Tut-tut. Shame. Then what would you have said?"

Mycroft's neck turned sideways on its own accord. The Infamous Bob which coincidentally pointed to the lavatory. Sebastian straightened up, eyes widening as he return-bobbed. All his bodyguards straightened up as Seb approached Mycroft, the latter's eyes rabbit scared.

"What the fuck was _that_, huh? What do you think I am, huh? I have standards, you useless piece of flesh!"

"B—boss," Mycroft whimpered, "it's not your p—problem, it's _my _problem—"

Sebastian gritted his teeth and cast a final look on the cross-dressed British Government before grabbing him by his shoulder, "Five mil till tomorrow, do you geddit, you useless piece of smartphone without signal?"

"I'm listening boss. . . but. . . five? I mean, you said four on the ph—"

"That _was _on phone," Fatty growled irritably, "Now boss came up to you in a car, wasted gas and precious time, is your man-whore of a daddy gonna pay for that?"

"Gas worth one 'mil'," Even Mycroft picked up the use of 'mil' from Seb. "Alright, alright. . . thank h-heavens Romeo boss didn't have anything to eat on the way. . . otherwise it would've been six. . . if you want anything from here," he offered in an attempt to momentarily reprieve himself of the glare of the spotlight, "there are very delicious—"

Seb sighed an all-suffering sigh. "Yeah, yeah, shut up smartarse. It'll be six too. If you don't send me five mil by five pm tomorrow, I swear I'll make your family of three into six."

"Th—th—three into six?" This time Mycroft felt a real stab of fear. Although he knew what Seb's insinuation, he let it out like other ordinary humans. Seb rolled his eyes.

"If I chop a family of three into half, they'll be six, fucking idiot! Useless skull without brains!"

And with that Sebastian "Romeo" Moran strode out of there with his men in style, leaving a Mycroft Holmes in negligee behind, his face burning with humiliation and his mind desiring for revenge.


End file.
